Porcelain Skin under a Midnight Shadow
by InTheLovelyDarkness
Summary: Bella Swan is 16 years old, a half mute, and lives at an orphanage. When the Cullens adopt her, she gains interest in them-Edward in particular. Can they get Bella to reveal her past -and will she learn to love again? Rating may change, T for language.
1. New Start

_**Starting a new story. Not quite sure what brought this idea on . . . but it is certainly one I have wanted to share for a bit, and I am now taking time off from OLRF to write something **_**new**_**. Hope that it is good . . . a Little OOC, set in current day or a year or two before, Normal pairings.**_

_**-Anna

* * *

**_

**BellaPOV**

I stare at the wall, watching dim shadows flicker across the less than smooth white surface to put off the boredom and loneliness I feel as of present.. I imagine patterns that are not there. I see in the cracked wall a man kneeling, perhaps praying to the God I do not believe in.

"Hey No name!" a boy sneers at me from across the room on his twin sized bed. I ignore him. He pauses, assessing my reaction, then begins to frequent.

"You deaf, dead or dumb?" he asks with a snicker. Two other boys and one girl laugh with him; I assume they are his posse or his family. I still ignore them, fixing my idle gaze on the wall. I trace my fingers

"What are you doing, freak?" the girl says, making her friends laugh. She is obviously pleased. I do not respond with the retort that hangs on my tongue, because I see that teasing me and impressing her posse members is important.

"Maybe she's tapping a secret passage!" one of the two boys laughs. I close my eyes, tracing over the wall with one hand, connecting the dots and bumps in the whitewash to gain hold of the emotion I feel so strongly. I am startled by its presence. I have not felt in three years, particularly since the crash. Emotion scares me now.

"Well, tough luck kiddo! You're a Piece of garbage and you're staying where you belong: in garbage. We're gonna be outta here before you can call for mama, and then you'll be here alone! Maybe the janitor will like you. He loves little girls like you," the boy who started the teasing taunts.

"In that case, I am quite sure that he will take a taste from her before she leaves," I say, turning and nodding a bit to the girl to show who I am talking about. The boy shoots from his spot on the bed like a rocket. He holds his fists up, ready to fight, lip curled over his teeth.

"What did you say 'bout mah sister?" He snarls. I stare at him with lifeless eyes before raising my eyebrows, not in an act of innocence or weakness but in one that says "you heard me, so what is your pansy ass going to do about it?"

"You're dead no name! D-E-A-D!" The girl says as she jumps up with her brother. They smile at me, of complete confidence as they approach. I stand, brushing off my legs, ignoring them. I am not afraid. They move faster, taking my "distraction" as weakness. I allow them to come within inches wait for them, and then to start.

The girl throws the first punch. I lash out and catch her hand by the wrist, twisting it and successfully tossing her aside. The boy comes forward, and I allow myself to apply a clean kick straight to his chest. I feel no sort of remorse as I do this. One might say that it is wrong for a 16 year old girl to fight 14 year olds, but if they see these fourteen year olds; experience their aggression firsthand, they will change their minds.

I fight. It is the only thing I have learned to protect myself with. I punch the boy in the nose, hearing a sickening snap before blood seeps onto his face. The girl has my mercy, and therefore she doesn't receive any direct punched or slaps, just pushes or twists as I stop her from punching me.

I win the fight, and turn to the other two boys to see their reaction—I am prepared to have to defend myself against anyone who may seek revenge. But they are still, staring at me in fear and awe, and I cautiously turn back to the girl and the boy, keeping ear out for any other danger.

I help the girl up and offer to walk the boy to the infirmary, which grants me strange and distrustful stares from them. I turn and walk out myself, not turning around to see if they are following—I already know that they are. I hear their footsteps against the tiled floor of The Home, and I walk into the infirmary with them hesitantly trailing behind.

The nurse recognizes me.

"Aw, Bella, what have you done now? What have I told you about fighting?"

"I am sorry, Nurse Lydia," I reply formally, and she sighs heavily.

"Come here, you," she says to the boy, and leads him to a space for laying down and applying medicine. The girl remains, and she turns to me.

"You know, you're a pretty decent gal after all," she says. "Will you teach me how to twist someone's arm like that?" I am about to reply when the nurse, having caught the girl's question, replies for me over her shoulder.

"No, she won't. because you won't ever have to fight, darling. You'll be a good girl, and when you grow up you'll have nice things and a family that loves you." I see in the girl's eyes a hope and innocence that tell me that she has not always been here. That underneath the hard surface she showed when fighting me is the little girl that loves unconditionally and relies on her brother for protection, that likes toys and teddy bears and tea, and that wishes to grow up like the women who wear expensive fashion.

She has hopes and dreams, and she has not always had to fight. In her eyes I see a mirror of me at that age. In her eyes I see the hope, the innocence, the dreamy nature that I was accustomed to. But, lurking behind, are the shadows of fear that her life has conditioned her to.

I smile at her, faintly, just before a lady walks in. Well . . . I can't really say "a lady" because that would be assuming that she is just anyone, just some worried gal fretting over this and that that I've never met before.

This lady is "The Clerk". Her name is really Ruby, I think, but us here at The Home call her The Clerk because she wears a suit everyday with fishnets and high heels that _clack click clack _against the floor as she walks—more like marches. Her hair is always pulled into a tight bun, and her lips set in a grim line, smiling rarely. Some are afraid of her. Some call her a "tight-assed bitch who needs to loosen up and get the fuck her high horse" (words of a surprisingly small boy who lives in the same room in The Home as I) I like Ruby. She is not falsely cheerful, like others here, and she speaks the truth in every word or tap of her shoes. A pleasant change for me.

"Are you Code ID No. 16582?" she asks me. I nod solemnly. Our Code ID numbers are what we are identified by—never names. We learn our Code ID numbers through hours of studying our file and our forms when we first come here. I have known it by heart for three years—known it to be my identity so strongly that I have almost forgotten what my real _name_ is.

"Come with me. There's a family who has come to adopt you." I nod, and follow her down the corridor, where she will take me to my group room here at The Home for the last time, before I will probably be sent back about six months, maybe a year later if I am lucky. I will pack my things and follow her to the meeting room, the room where we meet the family we're supposed to be living with.

The Home is where I live. No—it is where I have learned to survive. It is an orphanage for people like me, who have been caught doing an act of juvenile delinquency at least once, who have been bounced from foster home from foster home, who have lived on the streets, who have been caught in fights constantly.

Who have learned to survive in the real world on their own, because their parents never taught them how and aren't here to now.

I am Isabella Marie Swan. When I was 11 years old, my parents died. They were both attacked by a pack of wolves. I know it doesn't sound likely. But I was there. I was there when my mother screamed to me to run, when my father turned his back for just a second and then got attacked. And so I ran, and ran, until I got home. I was lucky—or so some people might say. But I know that I was unlucky when I emerged from the forest untouched and not followed.

I never saw my parents again. There was no funeral, no formal one with a coffin and a headstone and a priest and people, but a week after they were murdered I went back and found their remains. I was not squeamish as I carried them to a small nook in the forest with a little meadow and a waterfall stream and buried them there. In my little heaven, the place I planned to be buried. I artistically made logs into their names, Storm and William Swan, over their make shift grave.

After that, after burying my own parents, I went crazy. I saw delusions—illusions of matter, colors melting into the ground and becoming, everything turning into color or matter. Ghosts. My parents, voices—they all came. But I never screamed, or ranted to anyone. I never fought or hit, kicked or insisted for others to see what I saw. And yet I was still sent to a doctor, still advised to see a therapist, when I talked to anyone about outliving both my parents.

Trauma, they say. I have a lot of it. I used to cry out for my mother and father at night, used to scream their names until I fell off into an unconscious sleep filled with memories as dreams. And one day, when I did that straight in front of my therapist, broke down and spoke gibberish, I was sent to a mental asylum.

I was released at age 13, when the doctors said I could become a functioning member of society. They released me into The Home. Right. A goddamn functioning member of society. I was bounced from foster home to foster home, and over time, I stopped crying. Pretended I was okay, pretended like I still didn't _see_ what I see even now. I don't have tears left, and now the only things I care to remember are the memories of my parents—excluding the pack of wolves, including the burial because they were buried in my little heaven. (It is my heaven even now, the place I think of often and plan to visit once I grow up and get a house of my own away from The Home. The place where I plan to build my house, to raise any sort of family that I probably won't have, to be buried. It is my only hope, my only love left, my only sunshine, because it is where my parents are resting, where they wait for me.)

That is my life. So I feel nothing as I pack my things and walk forward with the lady to the meeting room to meet the family which I am sure is dysfunctional just like the other foster care homes I've been in where the only reason I'm there is for the money I bring in with my presence. No different.

This is my life.

Here we go again.

* * *

**EdwardPOV**

It is Esme's idea. She wants to adopt. She wants to adopt a human.  I do not blame her for wanting to have a child again, a human child—but bringing one into our family I do not approve of. Of course, another solution might be to simply change a human child through the three day process of fiery pain and burn everyone in my family including me went through to become a vampire, but if we did that we would undoubtedly have the Volturi on our backs.

And so now she has arranged to adopt a girl who has no other identification except for Code ID No. 16582. We all looked at the description and information on the girl, and what we found is pretty interesting. It has also put me, Carlisle and Jasper on edge.

The file we read of the girl said that she suffers from "immense trauma" which led to the forming of her current "problems": Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Paranoia, Delusions, and Disassociating State.

In other words, she is a stickler for everything to be neat and orderly and clean, she is paranoid, she has hallucinations, and she zones out from time to time—Carlisle has told me that one in Disassociating state can perform tasks mechanically, without thought—such as driving a car, or cooking dinner, or committing a homicide or suicide.

Fair reason to be wary of this girl.

We are driving to the orphanage now. I am annoyed with most of the thoughts of my family. I rue the fact that I possess the immortal gift of reading minds—there is no way at all to turn it off. I know that, in addition to having to deal with my family's thoughts, I will have to bear the burden of hearing the thoughts of a girl who is described as half insane.

I wince. I try to keep my mind occupied, so I will not have to think of the girl too much. I figure that if I do not make direct contact or eager friendliness with her; if I stay out of her way, that she might stay out of mine for the most part.

Still, like my family, I can not stop thinking of her.

-I wonder if she is on any medications or sedates . . . perhaps we can ask someone who handles that at the orphanage?—Carlisle

-Oh, this is wonderful! Of course Alice and I will have to go out shopping for clothes and furniture for her new room, but never mind that! I hope that she will like our family . . . I'll have to talk to Rosalie and Edward . . . –Esme

-Why did Esme have to go and send in forms for adoption? For a _human_!It's _crazy_! This girl is insane, from what I read on the file, and everyone's obsessing over her! Big deal! Even Emmett is looking forward to meeting the crazy girl!—Rosalie

For once, I actually agree with Rosalie . . . somewhat.

-Oh, oh oh oh! This is great! I bet me and the new girl will be best friends! I wonder if she will like shopping . . . maybe we can go shopping together and I can get to know her! I hope she'll like me! –Alice

-Hmm . . . Alice is excited and Esme is, too, Emmett is probably thinking of all the ways he'll be able to tease her (am I right, Edward?) which I'm not sure is good because she sounds pretty unstable . . . and no one knows how she might respond to his teases, or us. I'll have to make sure to keep good track of her emotions and to keep fair distance, too . . . a human for a sister. Wow. –Jasper

-Ha, wonder if she likes sports! Football, baseball, basketball! This is a great chance! Edward won't even play a game of one on one catch with me. Hey, maybe me and my new lil' sis will finally make up the greatest prank ever and get Edward with it . . . shit, he's listening!—Emmett

I frown, realizing that I've been sucked into the obsession with the girl, in the process of listening to my family's thoughts.

I wonder what the girl will look like. The file said she would have brown hair—probably cut short, since the file also said that she's been in a mental asylum. Brown eyes—flat, like all brown eyes are in their darkness. 5 foot 8 inches—taller than Rosalie and Esme, the near same height as Jasper (off by 2 inches) nearly the same height as me (off by about 7 inches) and under Emmett (off by around ten inches to a foot). Which is tall, even if it may not seem. She is caucasion, and that is all that is described.

She will probably be average like humans are. And, if she's 5.8, I imagine that she will be fairly slim, even if she is over the 200-pounder mark, because of her height. But that's all I can see in my minds eye. So, us among a human—who's thoughts will likely be insecure when she sees us. Oh, sweet Jesus, if you weren't listening 90 years ago when my mother and father died, and when I became a God-forsaken _vampire_, will you please, please, spare me the wrath of insecurity and insanity in this girl's thoughts?

The car (Carlisle bought a new car, a sort of SUV with room for all of us, including the eigth member of the family that we will meet soon) stops, and I realize that we are at the orphanage—which is nothing like we might've imagined. It is a sleek, modern building that looks more like an office space than a house. It has four stories and windows that resemble the ones on the sides and front of hospitals. Inside, we see rooms with twin sized beds, nighstands, and the other things an average room might have. There is an infirmary, and a kitchen, and a cafeteria—like a boarding school.

Everyone—excluding myself and Rosalie, need I remind—is excited as we get out the car and walk inside. I run my hands through my hair and step inside the building in line with Carlisle and Alice.

"Can I ask what I can do for you?" a guard asks as we enter. So I was right—this place _is _like an office space. Esme explains that we are here to adopt and pulls out the forms for proof, as well a shows her ID, and we are let inside.

_**(A/N: Keep in mind that I have no real knowledge on this sort of thing, so I am making up things based on what I think might happen in a real orphanage/adoption agency)**_

As we walk down the long hall, I notice several stares—some hopeful and some distrustful, but for the most part awed by our beauty—from the children and teenagers. I see into their minds and view the fear and pain there, see the reason why they are now stuck in the modernized building with the overly cheerful workers, forced to live with what they have and what they are given, and conditioned to live one day at a time because the next morning is the beginning of the unknown.

I shiver, wondering if this is what might have caused some of the girl's insanity, wonder if this is what she feels so paranoid of, so skittish. I feel sorry for her—a pity that is not necessary or appropriate.

And then I remind—no, keep myself in check with a rebuke—myself that I am not supposed to get in the girl's way, and that means not feeling any emotions toward her. No pity, no sympathy, because it is clear that all the pity in the world could not stop me or hardly any of my family if, for one second, she opened a bleeding wound and one of us or most of us lost control.

Jasper looks at me, questioning my emotions. I walk faster, so that I am in line with Esme and I try to keep calm and indifferent. Esme, however, takes the chance to talk to me.

"Edward, please_ please_ be nice to the girl. Don't scare her, okay? I know that the idea is in your high disapproval, but I really think this could work and I don't want anything to ruin it, if we can help it."

Esme, please note that I love you like a mother, as sweet and caring as you are, but if you _ever_ give a speech to me again about "being nice" to the half insane human girl we are about to adopt, I might tear my hair out and rip off my ears.

"Aw, Edward is just mad because he won't be the odd man out anymore. He won't be so special, because Moms and Carlisle here will have someone else to worry about. He won't be their little boy anymore!" Emmett said, wiping away a fake tear. I growl, but everyone else laughs, mostly forced.

"Hey, I wonder if Edward might have finally met his soul mate? She's paranoid, he's paranoid. She's a neat freak, he's a neat freak. She zones out, he zones out. They're a perfect match!" Emmett said, laughing and attracting many a stare. I reach out and slug him on the arm.

"Ow! That almost hurt!"

"Emmett, no teasing your brother or your new sister. Ok?" Esme warns. He shrugs.

"I'll try," he offers. We all laugh then, knowing the word _try_ is quite necessary.

"Oh, I think this is the right room," Esme says as she points to a room with a sign on the wall outside it saying "Meeting/New Family room". I frown and sigh, preparing to be bombarded with a hoard of thoughts from an average human girl as we walk inside.

And then I receive perhaps the best—and worse—surprise in 90 years.

Because, standing there next to a tall lady in a business suit and glasses (she is stony-faced; a look into her mind reveals that she's worked in the adoption business for 10 years and has seen about everything) is the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

She has long, very long, smooth and shiny brown hair with facets of red and hints of gold that waves and curls past her shoulders and almost to her waist. She is taller than I pictured, but a quick glance reveals that she is in fact 5.8—just taller by a half inch. She has long arms and legs, and hands that look strong yet soft and warm.

But her _face _is the most to behold. She looks like a porcelain doll with her ivory skin that had slight rose undertones and a glow under the fluorescent light. Her eyebrows hold arches that look natural, a person forever questioning something. Wide cheekbones that in their placement framed the gentle slope of her nose, which's nostrils turn up like a button in a rounded triangle. Her lips are full, the upper lip sticking out just a bit more than her lower, a reverse pout.

But her _eyes_. Deep. So deep that I am startled by the contrasting emptiness there. They are chocolate brown with darker and lighter blends mixing in. I am lost in them, even though she is not looking at me.

And her scent. Potent. Hard to describe. No perfume could ever compare, and not even the best of scientists could have found the right ingredients to match it. It is flowery, like a vase of freshly picked roses atop a round table, and sweet, like a ripe apple—or maybe a hot apple pie left on the sill of an open window to cool. Fresh, like a gentle summer breeze. Comforting and melt-in-the mouth, like how humans describe the spice cinnamon to be. My throat burns, and I realize at the same time that this girl's scent has made me actually crave food that I loved as a human.

Her mind . . . . is silent.

My wish to Jesus is granted, ironically the sarcastic and rhetorical one.

I can not hear a thing from the tall, beautiful, extremely wonderful smelling soulful eyed and half insane girl. Who is now staring at me as if she sees what I see in her.

For once, thank you, Jesus.

Maybe.

* * *

BellaPOV

There they are.

My new family.

They are all beautiful. Inhumanly so. There is a tall, dirty blonde man who looks to be the oldest, and the second oldest—or maybe she is the oldest after all but just doesn't look it?—seems a maternal looking caramel haired woman. Then there is a tall honey blonde boy, and a short—five feet maximum—black haired girl with a spiky haircut—almost like a flirty slip-up, if you imagine right—and a pixie sort of face that fits her height. A burly, muscular boy with dark curls and a grin on his face, next to the most beautiful girl ever, and maybe the most beautiful there—a tall, golden blonde girl with a frown on the face that looks like a supermodel's. They all have snowy pale—but not stark white skin and unusual butterscotch eyes.

I wonder why they are here adopting me, an insane girl, instead of posing for photoshoots at a huge modeling agency. I look them over again. I think that is all.

But wait! There's another one.

Turns out that the blonde girl isn't the most beautiful one.

He's tall. He looks more boyish than the rest. He has bushy eyebrows that are directly over his brow bone. His face is slightly triangular near the jaw, and his chin is strong with a slight dimple. His nose is perfectly shaped, and his cheekbones are high. His eyes are the same shade as his family's, but I find that they remind me of topaz.

I frown a bit. Where did all that come from? I'm not supposed to be ogling one of the family members! I'm supposed to be the distant crazy girl who shuts herself in her room and keeps the lights off and the curtains drawn—which I do—and eats only when necessary. After all, after a while of living on little food, my body has become accustomed to eating when I'm near starving to death—I can't eat at any other point. So, a crazy girl who doesn't come out her room for most meals and stays to herself, doesn't talk and doesn't smile nor laugh. Sounds good, to me at least.

God, I really hope that they are not one of those family's who go to things like swim meets and football games and softball practices, not the type of family who has movie night and make-your-own-sundae Friday . . . . in other words, not a family who suffers from the ADFL (American Dream Family Life) which includes:

Having at least 2 plasma screen TVs.

Living in a small town or suburb; or a neighborhood where families frequent in living or pursuing the ADFL.

Having at least 100,000 dollars in both savings and checkings; or their yearly income (after taxes) having more than three zeros in it.

Having a father that has a potbelly, mows the too-neat lawn with a rusty lawnmower and a beer.

Having a large pool—either in-ground or above—that often holds vast amounts of children during barbecues.

Having barbecues. Period.

Having a living room with a leather recliner.

Havig at least 2 children with classic good looks:

Blond hair

Blue eyes

Tan skin and dimples.

Having "all American children" who are jocks at school, excel in everything and go to a vast amount of parties during the year.

There are many more; too much to list in my mind right now. But I think this family might fit a few right off hand. I don't think I'm going to like it there. But, I'm used to being unhappy by now. You give the world a smile, and the word flips you off. It's normal.

"Well, this is the Cullen family. And this is . . . .," Ruby trails off, motioning to me, signaling that I am supposed to give my name.

"I am Bella Swan. Good morning. It is nice to meet you." I revel in the sound of my Italian accent, which I owe the thanks to my father, who came from an Italian family—too bad they decided to Amercanize his name.

"Or, if you wish you may call me Isabella," I replied, just as formally as my first comment.

"I am Esme," the maternal woman says, and went on to introduce her family. The dirty blonde on is Carlisle, the tall honey blonde is Jasper, the short one is Alice (who is smiling so wide at me that her face might crack. I am starting to get creeped out), the big, burly one is Emmett, the beautiful golden blonde is Rosalie.

The handsome bronze-haired, boyish boy is Edward.

"It is nice to meet all of you," I say, giving one short, polite smile. Edward's expression looks surprised, and curious.

"Are you Italian?" he blurts out, much to the scorn of his family, who all glare at him and send me apologetic glances. Do they expect me to be offended? I am quite proud, actually, and I don't hesitate to show it.

"Pah! Avete notato?" I say, tilting my head. He half smiles, but looks away. I smirk, glad to have fixed him.

_**(A/N: "Pah! Avete notato?" is actually Italian for "Pah! Did you notice?")**_

"Hi Bella! I'm so happy to meet you! Do you like shopping?" Alice asks me excitedly.

"Alice," Esme and Carlisle (the mother and father, I realize) warn her.

"Hmm . . . shopping del libro, sicuro. Shopping di musica, definitivamente. Shopping dell'alimento . . . . forse. Acquisto dei vestiti? Soltanto se ottengo scegliere, Tesoro."

"Umm . . . . what?" she asks, looking confused. I sigh. Did not any of them know Italian? It was the language I grew up with, and therefore the only language I knew well. If they wanted me to speak English, they could at least look into buying me an Italian=English dictionary.

"Hmm . . . . Book shopping, sure. Music shopping, definitely. Shopping for food . . . maybe. Clothes shopping? Only if I get to choose, darling." My English is sharp and mispronounced, but she seems to understand.

"Oh. Okay!" her face lights up instantly.

"Please forgive me for asking, but do not any of you know Italian?"

"Edward does!" Alice and Emmett say, pointing to Edward, who glares at them. Ah, of course, he does not want to be translator for the crazy Italian girl.

"Amperora, deludente?" I ask.

"I'm fine." His face says otherwise.

''La vostra faccia è un traitor, doice."

"Sorry ?" he says, almost a question. I smile, a bit. At least someone there is as reluctant as me.

"Alright, are you two done with your private conversation?" Emmett booms. I nod, not turning to Edward again. Carlisle speaks then.

"Well . . . I suppose we should leave now. Bella?" I nod to signal that I am ready, looking down and checking my bag, making sure that everything is fastened tightly. I also look down to hide the very slight smile on my face. This is a good start, as far as adoption goes. Usually the mother is a fat woman wearing a too small baby gap T-shirt and loud-mouthing about what I should and shouldn't do, and we end up in a spat before we even leave. But this is different. These people seem smart. And interesting.

And maybe . . .

No, I could not nurse hope. I could never, ever begin to nurse hope that I might love again someday—love anyone again. And I couldn't nurse hope that I would ever receive love.

Because, when you're conditioned not to hope, not to expect, how can you hope for anything, how can you allow yourself to rely on someone else for comfort . . . when really, that person is in fact the person conditioning you not to hope?

* * *

_**So, what did you think? I know, kind of long for a first chapter . . . but I really wanted to get into what Bella/Edward is thinking/feeling. This is not one of those stories where Bella is 13 or 14 years old. She is 16, and considers herself an adult.**_

_**And yes, I do speak Italian. Just a little note: here is a translation of the conversation Bella and Edward had after she found out he spoke Italian:**_

"_**Ah, disappointed?" Bella says.**_

"_**I'm fine," Edward responses.**_

"_**Your face is a traitor, sweet," Bella replys.**_

"_**Sorry?"**_

_**Yes, that is the translation. Okay, just a few more notes:**_

_**Bella will not be just "a-okay" with everything. She has trauma for her past, and she will show it. She will not talk freely, she will not smile often, and to be honest Edward and Bella both have reluctance toward each-other, so this isn't one of those schoolgirl crush fics.**_

_**That's it . . . sorry if that disappoints anyone, but I like to write deep.**_

_**-Anna**_


	2. Home

_**-Anna**_

Chapter 2: "Home"

_**So here is chapter will be about how Bella comes accustomed to her new surroundings, and what the Cullen family begins to learn about her. Some more Italian will be in here, but not a lot. I don't want people to go crazy wondering what my characters are talking about! Lol. Anyway, I know Bella's diary entry(ies) seem really long, but you should read them because it includes information—information that may help you understand why Bella does what she does sometimes.**_

_**So . . . enjoy! Smiles.**_

_**-Anna**_

**EdwardPOV**

The girl—Bella—continues to amaze me. She is Italian. She knows Italian—and she has a sense of humor—a saucy one, I think. I didn't think she would have one. I admit that it is unfair to consider her unable of laughing or talking or cracking good jokes, but I did not expect it . . . I expected someone with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Paranoia to be less . . . sarcastic, less witty. More serious, maybe even cluelessly skittish, I must also confess.

But Bella is different. I can tell as she walks with us with her head down, looking at her bag as if it is the most important thing in the world—which to her, it probably is. She does not stare at us, nor does she make any remarks or sarcastic questions, like most adoptees probably would. She looks around sometimes, seeming fascinated by the streetlights and the yellow lines on the street that mark lanes.

She is oddly childlike not in looks but in nature, surveying everything around her with baffling interest—as if she'd never seen in before. She doesn't seem to know what a straight line is and I wonder just how much she knows. I realize, looking at the way she stares in wonder at everything, that she has probably never been this free before.

"Bella?" I ask. She looks up reluctantly, almost angrily from her task of examining the large group of ants on the sidewalk.

"Yes?"

"Where did you live before . . . well, at your last home?"

"I lived inside the house."

"Well . . . what city were you in?"

"I do not know. The house was like my city, state, and country. I knew nothing outside of it."

"Oh . . .," I murmur, feigning understanding when really I am baffled. Surely she must have known where her foster family lived . . . . surely she must have known the neighborhood, if she lived there?

Bella keeps stopping on the sidewalk constantly, unzipping and unfastening her bag and peeking inside to check on something. I wonder if she has something like a pet . . . or a baby inside of there. The others notice as well.

-What is she checking on so frequently? Perhaps she has something fragile in there . . . or something illegal? Or maybe a creature . . . –Carlisle

-Hmm, maybe she has a special something in there and she wants to make sure it's okay. I would understand. –Esme

-Wonder what's in there? Maybe she's got weed! I wonder if vampires can smoke weed? Hmm . . . maybe I'll ask her for some. –Emmett

I don't know why I feel so angry when I hear that. There is an instinct involved—the instinct of protection. I feel the strong urge to protect Bella, from accusations and physical threats. I don't know why—this girl is nothing special. Okay, that's a lie. But Bella is nothing special to me.

Maybe that's a lie. Why else would I be so absorbed by her?

Perhaps it's because she looks so fragile—I hear, very loudly even when I'm not listening the sound of her heartbeat. I see the pulse of her blood under the thin, nearly translucent barrier of her skin. And my throat burns with desire.

-Oh, what is she doing now? –Rosalie

-I wonder if she has a pet? Ohh, maybe it's a rabbit! Bunny hop! –Alice

- . . . . ?—Jasper

"Edward?" Bella mumbles. I turn.

"What is it?"

"Well . . . dove è il vostro automobile?"

"Il nostro automobile è parchegglato appena intorno là , " I say, pointing to the next corner.. She nods

"Avete un automobile grande?"

"Sicuro. È un SUV. Perchè?"

"Sono solo curioso."

"Oh." But I wonder.

(_**A/N: Translation:**_

"_**Well, where is your car?" Bella asks.**_

"_**Our car is parked just around there," Edward answers.**_

"_**Do you have a big car?"**_

"_**Sure. It's like an SUV, Why?"**_

"_**I am just curious." Bella says. )**_

When we reach our car, Esme offers to take Bella's bag and put it in the back. Bella shakes her head, murmuring something in Italian. I translate to Esme.

"No thanks, I'd like to keep it with me, Bella says," I tell her. She nods, then speaks to me, too low for Bella to hear.

"Edward, do you think you could maybe convince Bella to speak in English, or maybe teach her English? I really want to be able to talk to her without needing you to work as a go-between translator," she says. I nod, getting in the car and planning to talk to Bella about it when I get the chance.

-Aw, it's not fair! Edward and Bella are having private conversations! I'm gonna learn Italian so I can find out what they're saying!—Emmett

We get in the car. Carlisle drives, Emmett in front with him (Esme volunteers to sit in back for the ride, mainly because she wants to talk to Bella more). In the seat back of them are Esme, Rosalie, Alice and Jasper (they are all slender enough to fit; even though there are three seatbelts and cushions [we never use seatbelts]). And in back of them are Bella and I. Wow. I bet they set this up so we'd have the seat together.

Probably Emmett's doing, considering how he seems to think Bella and I will start dating because she has evened our numbers. His mind is simple; view limited. Like a toddlers.

"Bella?" Bella—the Italian word for beautiful. I didn't realize until now.

"Che cosa è esso?" What is it? She says.

"Conoscete l'inglese?" Do you know English? I ask.

"Alcuni. Non lo parlo bene." Some, I do not speak it well, she says.

"Vi occupereste di parlare in esso comunque?" Would you mind speaking in it anyway ? I ask.

"Non grandisco l'inglese." I do not like English, she replies firmly.

"Ye, sono spiacente. Ma altri nella famiglia che non conooscessero l'italiano vorrebbero parlare vol senza avere bisogno di un traduttore." Yes, I'm sorry. But others in the family who do not know Italian would like to speak to you without needing a translator, I say.

"Forse, allora." Maybe, then, she says.

She opens her bag carefully and takes out a notebook—or a diary?—and begins to write. She is silent after that, occasionally looking out the window and asking about something, but otherwise quiet, continuing to write in her book.

**BellaPOV**

**I begin to write in my diary. I am angry, and the entry reflects my feelings.**

_**Dear Diary, **_

_I just got adopted. Yes, again. This is the 12__th__. I know it sounds strange to count, but I do. You never know when you might need that information._

_I would've written this whole entry in Italian like all my other stuff, but I'm not worried about someone in this family getting their hands on you because: I keep you with me at all times; I have a lock; and even if they did they wouldn't be able to understand my scrawl. Yes, chicken scratch finally comes into handy. Ha, ha._

_I am angry right now. But—before I tell you that, let me tell you this._

_Now, the family is called the Cullens. Unusual last name, I know, but not bad. Now, my new "mother" is Esme. She has caramel hair and she looks so maternal. I think that she's okay, but I'm not going to take any chances. You never know, is what I always say. Remember that._

_Anyway, my new mother is Esme, and then my new father is Carlisle. Cool name, huh? I like the way it sounds on my tongue. __ He has dirty blonde hair, and he looks kinda calm, cool._

_Then I have like, five brothers & sisters. It's the biggest family I've been in. diary. I'm a little scared . . . . I wish Mommy and Daddy were here. Yeah, I still call my mom and dad, Mommy and Daddy. But that's what they are to me._

_My sisters are Rosalie and Alice. Rosalie has blonde hair and she's really, really beautiful. I know you probably don't believe it, but one day I might get a picture of her and tape it here to prove it. Anyway, Rosalie is beautiful, but she frowns a lot. I assume she is unhappy with her life. Or, unhappy with me because it seems she is used to getting attention and sense I'm the new youngest she doesn't get so much attention anymore._

_Alice is pretty friendly, I guess. She asked me if I like shopping. Shopping is okay, I guess. But I like clothes shopping for T-shirts and jeans and hoodies and vests and sneakers . . . Alice has black hair, cut short and spiky .She's short, too. She reminds me of a pixie. Huh. Can you imagine me, thinking of pixies? _

_Then my brothers are Emmett and Jasper, and Edward._

_Emmett is tall, and sort of bulky, but not fat bulky, muscle bulky. His hair is short like a buzz cut, but curly, too. He grins a lot. I bet he likes sports, and pranks. Hmm . . . _

_Jasper is tall, with honey blonde hair. He avoids me, I think. He seems calmer than the others, but sometimes he seems tense or sad or mad for no reason. Another hmm . . . _

_Edward—now that's where I'm caught up, diary! He's so handsome. I know, I think he's _**handsome**_. Ugh! Anyway, he has bronze hair, and sort of a triangular face, and a square, strong chin with a cute dimple. And his eyes are light topaz. But sometimes ,when I look in them, I see green in them, too. Wonder if he's wearing contacts?_

_I suppose Edward is attractive, but I don't have a crush on him or anything. I don't know him, and I don't trust him, and he doesn't trust me either, so that's mutual. Anyway, I guess I can't say he's mean because he translates stuff for me (Italian to English) and answers all my questions in Italian._

_Actually, that's part of the reason why I'm so mad, diary. They want me to start speaking English. I don't want to change. I know it seems self-centered, but why should I have to change so they can be comfortable? I never asked to be adopted! I never asked for my parents to die! _**I never asked for them to come and think they're doing me a huge favor.**

**Because they're not, diary.**

_But, I do love being Italian! It is the only thing I have left of my father. And, the reason why I don't have tattoos or died hair or piercings, or surgery for my face or skin or whatever, is because my looks are exactly like my mothers at her age. And I don't want to lose either of them._

_So, it's Italian, for now._

_Over and Out._

_Signed,_

_Bella_

_P.S.: I am going to write more soon, so don't get lonely._

I snap my diary shut and apply the lock. Then I toss that and the pen back into my bag. But, before I close it, I check again.

I have these pictures, and this camera.

I like taking photos, and I keep my photos safe.

The first photos are not ones I took. One is of my mommy, and my daddy, and me—except I am in my mommy's stomach. She holds it and smiles. My father doesn't look at the camera but at my mother, one arm around her shoulder and one on her stomach over her hand.

The next is one of me, my mommy and my daddy. I am just a baby in this one, wrapped in my mother's arms in a thick blanket. My father is smiling brightly, and my head is turned to peek curiously at the flashing camera.

Then, the last one of my family together. My mommy, my daddy, and me, when I am five. I clutch this one to my chest, closing my eyes and fighting actual tears—the tears that only come when I look at these photos. I blink and open my eyes.

Edward is staring at me. I glare at him. I do not want him looking at me, or my photos, or my mommy, or my daddy. They are mine, and no one else can look at them. He looks away. Good. He had better respect my mommy and my daddy.

I still call my mom and dad mommy and daddy, at 16 years old. But I wasn't really grown up when they died, and I'm not now. And calling them that, what I did most of my life with them, is my way to remember the days where I would help my mother with dinner or learn Italian from my father, learn how to cook with my mommy and daddy . . . . the only way I know how to without crying, or having one of my fits.

I look through the rest of the photos. I've taken these. They are pictures—of me, of people at the orphanage, of my room at the orphanage, of the things in my foster homes, of views through the window. I gather them up and put them back in the bag, a top my camera.

I zip up my bag again and set it back down. Then I touch the charm on my necklace through the fabric of my shirt.

Many memories, many material things that hold memories in their delicate, fragile hold.

This necklace, this necklace is a gift from both of my parents. They got it for me when I was 3 years old. Since then, the necklace has become a choker. It is hard to hide, but I do. And I do not hide it because I am ashamed of it. I hide it because I don't want people looking at it, don't want people asking me about it. Because, in their eyes, it is just a beautiful, expensive keepsake.

But to me, it is another thing that, when I look at it, like the photos, I think of my parents, remember happy times. And I actually want to smile.

And, don't I deserve to smile?

The necklace is of a heart shaped chocolate brown gemstone set on a pure gold frame. (_**A/N: or is it called the face? You know, the back of a necklace with a gemstone as the charm/item?) **_Gold claws hold the stone in place, and the is a circular band around the gem that is slatted with diamonds and emeralds. I know that it cost my parents a fortune—like most of the things they got for me did.

But, they never complained. They always got the best for me. I was a long wanted daughter, and my birth was a miracle to my mommy and daddy. They had always wanted a child and yet had never succeeded, and were about to adopt a baby when I came along and kicked in my mommy's stomach.

So I was spoiled. Not rotten, but spoiled. I don't think I'm spoiled anymore, though. I have learned not to expect, and I indulge myself very rarely. I do, however, keep clean and as healthy as my life permits. My mother always said she wanted me to grow up to be a lady . . . . And I can't really _live_ like the lady she had in mind, but I can hold my back straight; walk tall ("God made you tall so men would look up to you." Quote: My mother.); dress appropriately and in clean clothes; keep myself clean; keep my hair clean; keep my nails clean, and so on.

I smile to myself slightly when I imagine my mother. She looks almost like me, but her hair is lighter and her lips are bigger; she has dimples and her smile is warmer. She would surely throw a fit if she saw where I am in life now. She would say that I needed to bounce from wherever I lived once I turned 18 and get a job and a place of my own. I would surely have money enough; if the bank accounts that my mother and father left piled with money for me settle right.

Now, I'm not sure how inheritance goes. They say you don't receive your funds until you're 21, but doesn't that only count if your parents have left you with a guardian or a trustee? I have none, only my parents will, the phone number of their lawyer, and the information for their bank accounts. So . . . does that mean that I can up and go after I' m 18? I hope so. If this thing with the Cullens lasts and I can squeeze out two years from their family life, then I'll be pretty sturdy and ready to go when September 13th two years from now rolls around.

My mother will be happy, I'm sure. Yes, that's it. I'll move back to Alaska . . . . I'll get our old house and clean it up, revive the furniture and lights and things. I'll visit my personal heaven every day and talk to my parents. I'll travel and take pictures and show them to them.

They'll be so happy.

(_**A/N: I know Bella sounds looney tunes, but go along with it. Delusional, remember? But oh, you must try to understand.) **_

"Bella?" Esme says gently, cutting into my thoughts. My eyes are closed and my expression soft, as well as my mind. I sight contentedly, still thinking, a respond without giving it much thought.

"Yes?" I mumble, still in the world of dreams. My voice is soft. There seems to be surprise lingering in the air, and behind my eyelids I see a brief flicker of a picture of everyone sitting, turned toward each other, expressions surprised and questioning.

I open my eyes, and the picture, as well as my brief tenderness, is washed away.

**EdwardPOV**

Bella puts her diary back inside of her bag and then delves her head in, once again, to check on whatever it is that she has in there. She takes something out halfway: a small bundle of square-ish papers. She stares at a few for a long time, flicking through them, and holds one close to her chest, closing her eyes, expression abruptly softer than I'd seen in the short . . . half hour I'd known her.

When she opens her eyes, she glares at me so fiercely that I feel a brief flicker of fear. She turns back to her paper, looks it over again, and then puts in back in, zipping up her bag again. She touches her chest, where a small lump resides, and then closes her eyes again and leans back against the seat.

Her expression is soft, and a few times an actual laughing smile appears on her face. I can't stop staring at her.

I feel . . . so attached to her. I can't stop _staring_. She looks beautiful with her eyes closed and expression tender; like a painting planned by Da Vinci or Van Gogh themselves. Her pale lavender lids flicker, dark eyelashes curling and hanging down from them, leaving slight shadows along her wide cheeks. Her lips are parted slightly, sweet breath leaving them and entering the air, leaving me teasingly intoxicated.

But her _scent._ Again, it teases me. It seems different now. There are traces of her old scent there, but now a wash of new flavors has barged in. I can tell that her previous scent is not gone forever . . . but just . . . waiting?

She smells . . . . again, like a combination of things I delighted in during my short human life. She smells fresh, crisp, clean, sweet, like a just-washed sheet hanging from a clothesline, blowing and drying in the wind. Then, a lavender sky. Strange, because a lavender sky doesn't appear to smell like anything . . . no, not a lavender sky, but the air during a lavender sky. Gentle, sweet, refreshing. And grass. I know grass doesn't smell so great, but on Bella it does. It fits perfectly.

I quickly snap out of my deep reverie and survey the thoughts of my family.

-We turn off here . . . pull off at the next exit . . . wonder if anything happened at hospital back home . . . ? –Carlisle

-I'll have to go shopping at a furniture store . . . maybe IKEA? Hmm . . . . should it be in warm tones, comforting? Or cooler, more modern? Maybe I should ask her? –Esme

-Shopping! We'll need lots of clothes. Party gowns, tunics, hemleyss, jersey dresses . . . –Alice

-Why is everyone so obsessed with her? Isn't it obvious that she doesn't want or appreciate the attention? But, I guess she deserves it. She's like, a brunette version of _me._ –Rosalie

Yes, she is Rosalie, except she isn't as bitchy . . . something you wouldn't understand.

-I have to get a pool! Maybe Carlisle'll listen if Bella can convince him . . . I'll have to work on her later! –Emmett

- . . . .*thinks in the background and looks depressed* –Jasper

"Bella?" Esme asks, and Bella's eyelids flicker. She sighs, one of odd contentment, and answers in a tneder, dreamy voice.

"Yes?" She opens her eyes, and very abruptly, the hopeful tenderness is gone. Esme winces a bit, but continues on hopefully.

"I was just thinking about your new room. Did you want any particular colors in it . . . or any favorite themes or furniture?" Bella closes her eyes again and once again seems dreamy, but reserved and drawn in this time.

"Hmm, my mommy likes the color red. Red. And brown, and gray, and orange. Maybe blue. My mommy and daddy like those colors, I think."

(_**A/N: I know Bella seems like an open book at times and like a shut-in the next, but she kind of comes and goes like ocean waves. )**_

"Bella . . . you're meaning that your parents are still alive?" Carlisle asks cautiously. We all notice how she referred to them in present-tense, and I know my family is waiting for me to supply a discreet explanation. I wish even more that I could read her thoughts, so that I could provide my family the answers they needed.

"Inside the time of angels," she says, nodding.

-Is she having a delusion, I wonder? Oh, aren't you supposed to try to bring people in delusions back to the real world . . . and then if that doesn't work, wait until they snap out of it on their own? –Carlilsle

-Oh, I hope she's okay! –Esme

-What the fuck is she talking about? –Rosalie

-Aw man, is she okay? She looks like she sees something else, and not us and the car. What's your read, Edward? –Emmett

-? I'm confuzzled. –Alice

- . . . confusion overload . . . –Jasper

"I know that my parents are dead. Do not do a U-turn and drive me to a mental asylum." Her tone is sharp, and I can tell that it is not just because of her accent getting in the way of her voice.

"Okay. "

"So, anyway Bella, are those the colors you want for your room?" Esme asks, trying to soothe the awkward silence.

"Yes."

"Great!" Bella is silent.

"We live in Forks, Washington," Carlisle pitches in.

"It's kind of cold there, so we'll need to adjust your wardrobe." Alice said.

"You know nothing of cold," Bella says darkly. It might have been funny because we were so extremely cold ourselves, but the way she says it hints at such darkness that no one responds.

"It rains a lot. You might as well kiss Mr. Raisin Bran goodbye, because you won't see him again for a long, long time," Emmett attempts at a joke, but Bella's hardness and mysterious nature is even crippling him in his joking.

"Rain is calm. Rain knows that sometimes you must allow gloom to befall you in order to be at peace."

"That's very insightful," Esme compliments.

"Thank you," Bella says so quickly and lowly that, with the added tone of her accent, I almost miss it.

"You're welcome," Esme is delighted, and I don't have the heart to tell her that just because Bella is soft now doesn't mean she won't be cold again later.

"So, Bella, do you play an instrument?" Alice asks conversationally. Bella's face is cold and lifeless, her eyes holding no emotion as she answers.

"One."

"Oh, that's good. Edward plays the piano. He's really great. Maybe he could play for you sometime."

"You have a piano at your home?"

"Yes, it's Edward. And it's your home too, now, Bella!"

"Hmm . . .," is her only reply.

And then everyone was peacefully silent—well, all except for one person in the car.

And her mind was as silent as her mouth.

**BellaPOV**

The rest of the drive is silent. I begin to view peeks of a green forest and a gray sky, and I know we are in Forks.

The town appears to be small. Everyone stares at the car as we pass, and at me through the window. I just hold their gazes with a look that says "what the fuck are you looking at?". I have no shame. There is no reason for me to be ashamed.

I stare at the buildings. Most are small settings that you might find at a strip mall or downtown in Hyde Park. There are about three streetlights in this town, I think, but I can't take the time to be awed by that. Everything is so interesting. I haven't been outside in years. YEARS.

Even at my foster homes, I usually stayed inside. Because any adopted orphan (and every time, the town knew I was an orphan) who went outside in an unknown town was looking to be: a) questioned mercilessly by her peers; b)raped; c) "beat up" (not like any of them might have a chance with me); d) stolen from; e)harassed (sexually included); or f) all of the above and more.

But everything here is so interesting! There is the ground, wet with water from previous rain; the sky, a moody, cloudy gray; the trees, a bright green, with dripping, heavy leaves that hang of the brown bark like hair. The lights are so bright, and the people are oddly familiar because of their expressions. They remind me of the people who are outwardly friendly, and have good intentions, but just can't help telling everyone's secrets beind their back. It is a natural impulse, I think. The place you're born has massive effect on your character.

Of course, there are exceptions. Sometimes a person is born and raised to be nice and friendly, but something happens and then she learns to be cold and distrustful, quick and alert. Now who does that remind me of?

Oh, yes, me, right. How could I forget? I snort and frown bitterly, and Edward turns to stare at me. I shake my head and turn to look back out the window. We are passing the town part now, and forest is taking over. The trees are tall, and the bark is sort of mossy. For a second I wonder if the road we're driving on is an actual legal road, but then I see the remaining pavement and relax. There is a bridge coming up, and I press my face to the glass of the window to see it better. It's made of stone, but pretty boring otherwise. The things around it are more interesting. There's tufts of moss along the edges of the banks, and little scrappy hedges and ferns. Then there are scratches of dirt and pebbles and sticks right before the bank cuts off to the river.

I have never seen a river before, except for in my little heaven. I think the river is beautiful. I can hear the swishing and roar of the water even in the car, and the loud noise somehow relaxes me. I slump back in my seat and shut my eyes, relaxing.

"Bella, we're almost home now." I nod with my eyes closed, not acknowledging the fact that this is not my home and never will be. They would only be hurt, and they wouldn't understand besides, so there's no point in wasting my breath. I open my eyes a few moments later and Edward is staring at me with a frustrated look on his face. I turn and glare at him. He looks away. Good.

"Bella, do you see it? There it is," Esme says, and her voice holds such love that I look out the window and look at what she points to through the windshield. It is a Victorian three story house with a wrap around porch. It is made of mostly glass, and it is surrounded by mostly forest. I nod a little, still silent.

"Welcome home," Esme said, and I think I smiled at her. Just a little.

Welcome home.

I think I liked those words.


	3. Temporary Escape

Chapter 3: Settling in

_**Here's chapter 3! I really enjoy updating this story, and I hope people like it! I've noticed that I have like, 156 hits, and yet only 7 reviews. You don't have to give a whole 500 word message, just tell me what you really think, even if it consists of only 1 word! **_

_**Anyway, enough raving about reviews. Enjoy chapter 3!**_

_**-Anna**_

* * *

**EdwardPOV**

Bella smiles just slightly when Esme welcomes her home. Her eyes melt into warmth for just a bit, and then the smile slowly fades and so does the light behind her eyes. They return into the deep and yet empty darkness that she's shown so much.

It scares me, that she should be so . . . lifeless, empty. Her eyes are void, and yet behind their lids is a desperate cry for help that doesn't seem to escape from it's cage. Bella is careful not to reveal too much of herself; not to warm up to us, and it breaks my heart.

Though I quickly got over the quick period of sadness. Bella is just a human girl; and nothing more. This belief—no, fact—is firm in my mind and I relax, knowing that I have not become too interested or too familiar with the human.

My family's mind has taken a quick turn from excitement to nervousness, and I take a quick check in to see just what it is that they might be thinking or planning so I can coordinate appropriately.

-Will probably need to buy things such as Ibuprofen, fever reducer, stomach soothing things . . . . ingredients for conventional and quick fixes . . . hope Bella is comfortable with the family environment, she's been through a lot a deserves to relax. –Carlisle

-I'm sure Bella will love it here! Everything will be perfect . . . dinner every night, some time as a family, good outings . . . . wonder what else Bella might be interested in? I should ask her . . . –Esme

-Oh, I just hope that she doesn't try to steal my light! Then again, maybe this isn't all bad. Bella is like another version of _me._ Oh, maybe she's like a human brunette version of me! Is that possible, to have a human version of yourself after you become a vampire? Oh, this is so wonderful –Rosalie

Hmm, actually she's like a smart, kind version of yourself, Rosalie, sister dearest.

-Video games, TV shows sports! Finally, I can have a person who I can teach all my tricks to! I'll teach her everything I know and we'll be like Batman and Robin from that TV show! Partners in funny heroics! I like it already. I'll have to get to her before Edward does, though. He'll probably show her something _boring_ like music or books. Ugh! –Emmett

-Will Bella let me do her hair, I wonder? Well, maybe she'll let me fix her clothes for her, at the least. Bella would make such a good model for all my clothes! She has the perfect hair, the perfect face, the perfect figure . . . –Alice

_Actually Alice, I might not mind you playing Bella barbie if her figure is involved . . . _I think, and a strange curling feeling makes itself known in my stomach. I feel my eyebrows furrowing in confusion, and yet there is a strange, tingling pleasure twisting inside me . . .

I go back into the minds of my family to escape it, hoping distraction will help shake it off.

-My Alice, excited as always. Everyone else is okay, I guess. Though the feelings coming from Bella are kind of bringing me down . . . and Edward, what the hell man? –Jasper

I shrug, and then turn back to Bella, who is staring out the window with a strange expression on her face. It is a mixture of disgust and awe, if there is such an expression. Her bright, eager eyes look strange with her deep scowl. She seems very unhappy about being adopted, and I realized vaguely that I couldn't really care less; my initial irritation with Esme's idea of adopting a human teenager had carried over where Bella herself was concerned.

The whole process of getting everyone out of the car and into the house goes pretty quickly, to my surprise. I am expecting Bella to be more hesitant, or on another note to examine everything here as she had near the orphanage. And yet she only grabs her bag and follows us into the house with barely a glance to the place she is going to be living in. She looks around the living room with some enthusiasm but says nothing; I come to expect it because her nature seems to be one of few words or outward gestures. Esme looks embarrassed as she tells Bella that she has to share a room until Esme can get her bedroom set up, but Bella is barely listening.

She has sighted my grand piano and seems to lose focus on anything else. She walks toward it in long, bouncing strides and smiles widely when she sees the shiny black surface and ivory keys. Her expression is not here but somewhere else, she is lost somewhere in happier times. She reaches out eagerly to stroke the keys, and then seems to realize that everyone else is watching her and straightens up. I can tell as well as everyone else that she is thinking of how idiotic she looked standing in the middle of the room and treating the piano like a long lost sister. I now understand her question in the car when Alice asked her if she played an instrument.

"Is this Edward's piano?" she asks, looking up at me with a certain smirk on her face. I nod and she seems bemused for a short second before she reaches her hand out again, this time looking at Esme as she asks a question.

"Do you play?" she asks, and Bella nods. "Well, I'd love to hear you. Would you mind playing us a song?"

"Not now," Bella says. "Later." Something is telling me that "later" means "never".

"Ok. I understand," Esme says with a smile, and Jasper reports that Bella feels relieved. Esme goes on smoothly with a tour of the house, and Bella's level of interest seems higher now. She asks many questions that Esme has never heard from a visitor (or any of us) before, and surprises all of us by acting almost _friendly,_ even though I knew enough of Bella already to know she probably couldn't stand any of us.

I myself feel very hesitant towards her; the feeling is not strong enough for dislike but I can't say I remotely like her without lying through my teeth. She seems very arrogant and dark, and while she doesn't act dishonest in general I don't suspect she'd hesitate for one second to lie. There is something dangerous I see in her eyes . . . and it _scares_ me. She is also too quick-tempered to be likable.

"So, who do you want to share a room with?" Bella frowns as Esme finishes the tour and returns to the previous topic.

"Edward," she answers quickly, and I don't hesitate to hide my displeasure. Maybe I had been too friendly, or perhaps too indifferent, towards her. I would have to make the message that I wasn't interested in friendship with her a little clearer . . .

"He is the only one who does not seem to have a partner and I would not want to intrude on any couples." Her answer is reasonable and seems considerate, but I can't help feeling a silent pang of regret. Now this means I can't stay up all night tending to my studies and listening to my music as I usually do; staying awake all night with no signs of lethargy would not be a good idea when I have a curious, astute human in my room that seems particularly fascinated with watching things and/or people, including me.

"Or, I can sleep in the living room, if you wish," she sounds hopeful, and I feel some regret that she seemed to be as indifferent and resentful towards me as I was towards her. Something about Bella compels you to like her; something subtle and perceptible only to the acute seems to draw you toward her.

"No! I'm sure Edward wouldn't mind."

"I changed my mind. I really think I should sleep in the living room . . .," Bella insists, with a quick, calculating glance at me.

"If you're sure . . ."

"I am."

"It's just for tonight. Edward can spare his room tomorrow." Esme persists, eyebrows drawn in confusion. Bella nods brusquely, then turns to the long white couch and places her bag on the long black console in front of it. She sits without a word, and stares into space as if lost in a daydream too potent to see beyond.

I was the first to leave, letting out a relieved huff as I went up to my third-story bedroom and shut the door, escaping from the pressure of her presence. I knew they would all want to talk later, after she was asleep, and I didn't know how I'd get out of it.

I didn't bother to think anymore and instead clicked on my stereo and let the wonderful sound of music flow into my ears.

* * *

**BellaPOV**

I sit without a sound and wait for them to leave. I hear footsteps on the stairs, and I don't need to turn around to know that Edward is the first one to return to his everyday activities. The rest of them disperse soon after and leave me in peace. Their presence overwhelms me—their faces are not their own; I see beautiful green eyes and blue gleams in the topaz depths, faces with too many flaws to belong to the Cullen family—thick eyebrows, high noses and crooked chins. It's an illusion of the past, a superficial look into what the Rosalie Hale or Edward Cullen of the far-off distance, might have looked before the transition, whatever it was, that brought them here.

Stillness breathes the air I breathe and I breathe in the stillness. Symmetry is left where color fades into whitewashed pictures of mistaken clarity. The room and all of its contents are washed of life; it's the decorating scheme of a professional interior designer, the type of iciness that only a hotel room or a showroom can hold. I see no change, no life, no warmth. The statues are not for touching, the furniture that I utilize is, in fact, not for sitting.

I stand as I comprehend this, moving away from the comfortable seating and searching for a diversion. My searching eyes failed, and I sat on the hardwood floor, not wanting to sit on the sofa—I could never stand being too comfortable at any one time. I moved away from the coffee table and laid flat on the floor, allowing my hair to fan out around my face, allowing all the energy and the memories of footsteps and the essence of the room itself to seep up into my fingertips with each breath.

It is not strange or new. This air, this feeling of weight being pushed upwards, consumes me until the artificial, deceptive light that has been closing in is pushed back, and darkness, the only thing I know well, moves in to devour me in its comforting embrace. Ignorance can only be bliss. I am cursed with the knowledge of life swirling around in my head, and the loss of vision, inability of thought, is the closest thing to heaven . . .

"Bella?"

An unsure voice ventures into the space where I rest, and when I open my eyes I see that night has descended, throwing it's pale light and contrasting darkness into the room. White skin flashes in the darkness, and looking into the topaz eyes that were warmer than they had any right to be, I knew Esme was standing over me.

"What is it?" my voice doesn't sound like my own, and I sit up. She's still there, her legs only inches away from my torso. I can't explain the feeling of uneasiness that befalls me; I move away from her presence.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm alive, aren't I?"

"I guess so." She gives a rueful smile, and I almost regret the remark. But not enough to apologize. I wasn't that thoughtful.

"I just came to check on you and you were laying here . . . I wanted to move you to the couch, but Edward warned me not to because you might wake up and be confused. What's wrong, honey? Why are you sleeping on the floor?" I was too busy searching the shadows for a notifying aura of green, but there was nothing there, and I relaxed.

"I was reading a book here. I guess I fell asleep." To my utter delight, someone had made the useful mistake of leaving a book open on the coffee table. I grabbed it as proof, and Esme raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"You should get changed and try to get some more sleep." I nod. She hesitates, then smiles, and adds that she should leave me be. I agree readily, and after she's left upstairs I sit a while before changing into my pajamas, grabbing the blanket some one had been considerate enough to leave out (was it Edward who first discovered me here? {Not that I consider him any more affectionate of me than the others; I'm glad he's as put off as I am}) and closed my eyes. It didn't take long to discover that I wouldn't be asleep anytime soon.

I kept my eyes closed and reveled in the silence.

* * *

**JasperPOV**

(A.N: Surprise, surprise! Shocked ya, didn't I? Wow, we really don't hear from Jasper that often! His view is in past-tense)

The morning signaled a brand new day, and for that I had mixed feelings. The night was over and my hours of being stir crazy (from having to sit still in order not to wake Isabella, the new human girl), but thee day held for the first time signs of the unknown and I didn't really know if it was worth going downstairs. Her scent was potent, her stare was dangerous, and her emotions were things that no words could make comprehensible. Her reactions were what none of us expected, and it made her extremely unpredictable. Worst was the icy calmness underneath everything; nothing of the lunacy I hade hoped for, just so I would have foundation to use when handling her emotions. They were truly uncontrollable.

I ventured downstairs after some prodding from Alice, the only person who could reassure me that everything would be alright, considering her ability with the future, and was surprised, once again, by what I saw.

Isabella, dressed in a black hoodie, dark jeans and large boots, was in the kitchen, messing around with the pots and pans (never making any noise, by some complete miracle) and digging around in the refrigerator for something to cook. A few words from Alice, spoken at vampire speed, alerted me that she was going to make breakfast for the family. I couldn't understand how Edward hadn't picked up on it, or how Isabella had managed to accomplish the task of entering the kitchen and finding the food stores without an interruption. Carlisle was either too busy or unwilling to explain more about her (he had read all of her personal history beforehand), so I was left clueless.

"Hello, Alice. Jasper." Her low voice carried, and I jumped; stunned more by the fact that Alice was just as taken aback than by the fact that she had detected our presence when we had made not a move, not a sound, barely a breath.

"Bella! I thought I heard you downstairs." Alice, always the hyperactive type; the best, besides Edward and Carlisle alike, at keeping up the charade for the humans. I had much to learn, and tagged along as she recomposed herself and nearly skipped into the kitchen.

"Hmmph," Isabella (Was it right to call her by her nickname in my thoughts when I didn't feel comfortable voicing it aloud?) murmured, acknowledging us further with only a look over her shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

"Making breakfast."

"Why? You didn't have to. Esme would have done it as soon as you asked her. You are the newest here, after all." Isabella turned to use with a smirk, and it wouldn't take Edward's assistance to know that she tacked on "and you're the freaky girl we adopted."

"Ospitalità italiana. Italian hospitality."

"Oh, you really don't have to."

"I'd prefer it if you would let me." She turned away, beginning the job of cracking a dozen eggs into a bowel, and seemed to forget all about us while she cooked. I realized from the near excruciating force of her happiness while she did even this small task that cooking sent her into a state of euphoria, otherwise known as "the zone". Alice turned to me with a raise of her eyebrows, and I gave her a smile that had nothing to do with Isabella or her mistaken generosity, rather with Alice's delicate beauty.

"What's going on?" Carlisle asked as he walked into the sitting room, accompanied by Esme, and caught the smell of the raw eggs. I wanted to tell him all about it, but Isabella had already detected us without the aid of noise or shadows, and I didn't want to risk trying to get the murmurings of vampiric whispers by her astute senses.

"Isabella is making breakfast!" Alice blurted. Alas, we were not the perfect pair.

"Really?" Esme asked in a low, but still excited, voice. . I couldn't tell if she was excited that Bella was comfortable in the kitchen, or just because of the mention of cooking in itself, but she was ecstatic.

"Yes," Isabella's cool voice said, and I didn't bother to fill Carlisle and Esme in on what happened. I instead walked into the adjoining dining room and sat down, joined by the three of them. Emmett announced his presence by the thunder of his greeting and the heaviness of his steps.

Rosalie and Edward were the last to enter, and by the time they did, the smell of bacon eggs, ham, grits—everything anyone could imagine and more, including backed breads with sweet jam on them—had wafted through the entire house.

This marked the beginning of a day of turmoil. Or at least, a day where things were not in a century-old routine.

* * *

**EdwardPOV**

The only thing that can give me the will to go downstairs is the disgusting smell of human food—Italian cooking, I'm sure, by the distinct smell of pastries and chocolate—and the sound of voices. I managed to escape the family meeting and lecture that was sure to've been directed my way, only because Carlisle had been too preoccupied with thoroughly researching a side effect of Bella's condition (vampires are easily distracted), and hadn't planned on coming down until around ten o' clock, when it would be an appropriate time for a late breakfast. Isabella has other plans.

When I reach the dining room, followed by an agitated Rosalie, the others are sitting, staring at each other. I say not a word and instead take a seat next to Emmett, who sits adjacent to Jasper. Rosalie huffs and takes a seat next to Carlisle, wordless because of irritation. I don't bother to work myself up to anger; curiosity is al l I can muster. I am shattered by this girl's presence, physical and emotional, and I thank the Lord (?) that the pressure of her thoughts isn't on me. I might be totally lost by now.

"Buona mattina, Rosalie and Edward." She's not in the room, but she discerns our entrance. I check in on Jasper's thoughts. He seems the most knowing, based on his facial expression.

-Amazing. Is there anything that she doesn't pick up on? First me and Alice, then Carlisle and Esme, now Rosalie and Edward. Have to warn the others . . . harder to keep the secret . . . –

He doesn't think of Emmett, and I already know that my brother made his presence known even before he announced a "good morning". If Emmett stood in any one place for a five minute period and left, allowing someone else to stand in that same place or at least in the room, they would've known he had been there.

What bothers me, if everything else is the object of my indifference, is how right he is. Isabella's intuition reaches beyond 20/20 vision or extreme accuracy, beyond the point of being neurotic or Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It's a power of perception, something potent, something strange . . . .

Something dangerous.

I'm not left to think for any longer; Bella strides into the room, expression apathetic even as she smiles, eyes holding a knowing look. She sets down a large platter of food, and I am surprised at her skill—it surpasses even Esme. I can tell she is an experienced cook, even though the disgusting smell is everything by mouth-watering to me, a vampire.

There are eight plates (that she doesn't pass out, but rather keeps in a stack) and eight knives, spoons, and forks each. I feel almost guilty that she went to work to do this for us when we were ultimately ungrateful and wouldn't eat at all, but also unduly amused. She doesn't seem surprised when none of us move to eat, and simply serves herself. Taking one large bite, she chews and swallows daintily before speaking.

"Don't worry, it's not poisoned. I haven't the right chemicals for that." If that is her idea of a joke, it's not a funny one. I'm sure she _isn't_ joking, however, since she's made it clear she couldn't care less about the lot of us. Not that we'd be at all effected, but just think if she'd said the same thing to a group of other humans . . .

When none of us moves or says anything, her expression changes as she continues to devour the large meal on her own. Her eyebrows draw over her dark eyes, her lips purse, and there is a look of sadness in her eyes . . .

And then I remember that in Italy, it is considered the highest insult to refuse a meal that someone has cooked for you. Even if Bella's preparation was not an act of hospitality, it is still considered to be a friendly gesture . . . and therefore we may be the rudest family members she's ever encountered.

"Sono molto spiacente," (I'm very sorry) I say, feeling that the apology is necessary.

"Preoccupazione voi stessi non; Ho sperimentato l'altro rudeness. La vostra media di condoglianze niente a me." (Concern yourself not, I have experiences other rudeness. Your condolences mean nothing to me.)

'Allora forse non dovreste essere in modo da danneggiato quando dico che siamo "su una dieta speciale„.' (Then perhaps you should not be so hurt when I say we are on a 'special diet'.)

"Forse non."(Perhaps not.)

By this time we were being observed by the rest of the family, but neither of us would say anything, and they had varied thoughts on that.

-At least they're making conversation. There's nothing much for the rest of us to say. –Carlisle

-Hope she isn't offended . . . wish we were still human . . . –Esme

-I'm not eating. Hell, no one asked her to cook. –Rosalie

-God . . . the smell! –Emmett

-I have to find a way to explain without hurting her feelings . . . –Alice

-What did you say? She's . . .calmer now, if bitter. –Jasper.

Bella eats in silence, speaking only to ask for my help with washing the dishes. Being prodded by my siblings, I consent.

I don't have to join her when she washed, rather, she hands me the plates after she dries. I start to wonder why she asked me at all, when she turns, having finished cleaning the dishes and wiping the sink clean, and gives me a mean look that I've seen worn by stubborn twenty-three year old sluts on soap operas . . . except, this look was anything but inviting, and certainly not an act.

"Non desidero essere amici." (I don't want to be friends.)

"Nessuno fanno il I. Li considero niente ma una sorella." (Neither do I. I consider you nothing but a sister.)

"Buon. Non posso vedere perchè c'è ne di voi desiderano essere il mio amico." (Good. I don't know why any of you want to be my friend.)

" Li consideriamo parte della famiglia " (We consider you part of the family.)

"Non. Se fossi, would've di I sopportato la vostra sorella. Se fossi, non dovreste occorrere tempo adeguato impararlo. E certamente non stavo avendogli questo colloquio con." (I don't. If I were, I would've been born your sister. If I were, you wouldn't have to take proper time to learn me. And I certainly wouldn't be having this talk with you.)

"Prende più di quello per fare una famiglia." (It takes more than that to make a family.)

"Non in mio libro." (Not in my book.)

I leave the kitchen and vow to avoid her as much as possible—she shares my feelings of hostility, or at least unpleasant apathy, after all. So we won't be friends.

I don't even know if she wants to be sister and brother.

BellaPOV

He leaves the kitchen without another word, and I don't regret the words that I've said. I see no use in salvaging their feelings, no need to lie when they all know what I think. If I am an anomaly, I may as well not pretend to be an item of stark uniformity, such as they are. It won't make me any more a part of their family.

I stare into the far-away distance, looking past the modern vision of the kitchen and seeing memories that are not there. With a blink, the pictures are gone. I walk through the dining room and into the living room, and through the door, out to the forest. I need solitude. I need space away from them, away from the illusions I can't fight, from the presence of the people I scorn and admire with the two complex parts of my being.

The departure is sudden, the questions directed my way barely reaching my ears. My eyes see before me a dream world, a sweet escape from the stark reality or mistaken certainty of the contemporary forest home. I slip between the shapes of a large spruce and a contrasting yew tree, leaving them staring behind me with no plans of pursuit.

It's starting to rain, and yet the moisture doesn't stop me. I allow the towering figures of the pine trees and the clouds overhead to engulf me in the gloom until I am no longer Bella walking into the forest; but rather part of it in myself. It's nice to belong to something, even if you will never have mind for companionship. And I certainly don't, here in the woods, wandering paths that whisper secrets in vain, touching the trees that even now seem part of a hazy dream.

My trail wounds deep into the woods, curving and twisting away from civilization to lead me into a world of eternal isolation. Soon the ferns and canopies of dense moss and protective ferns that hang overhead drip wet spots into my hair and onto my clothes; my boots elicited a pooling of moisture and a squeak with their step. I know not where to go or how to get there; I can say only that I search for the place where the hush of the forest meets the truth of fate, the place that we can only touch in death.

Air flows freely here, the trees grow taller and taller until they are high overhead and closer to the stratosphere than they are to the Earth, and the path is covered in nothing but

My searching feet come to a narrow, mossy clearing, strewn with large boulders and grassy logs, hidden in the shade of protective vegetation and looking like an entranceway into the land of the supernatural. With little difficulty, I climb onto a boulder, staring at the face of another, and wish more than anything that I could retain the same strength. Sprawling over the hard, wet gray surface just as I had the floor in _their_ house, I curl up into the fetal position, and try to remember what being part of an entity was like.

**_Short chapter, I know. Pretty dramatic, but I figured we could use a bit o' action, even if it's quite unexpected and comes quickly into the plot. Aye, this state of being concerning Bella won't last too long. Just wanted to get deeper into the problems that come with a bad past. Hope you enjoyed. PLEASE REVIEW (greedy and selfish, considering how long it took me to write and update, but humor me.)_**

**_-Anna_**


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